The White Tiger

cowered by his side and said, “Sorry sir, sorry sir.”
    “There is no duster in this class; there are no chairs; there are no uniforms for the boys. How much money have you stolen from the school funds, you sister-fucker?”
    The inspector wrote four sentences on the board and pointed his cane at a boy:
    “Read.”
    One boy after the other stood up and blinked at the wall.
    “Try Balram, sir,” the teacher said. “He’s the smartest of the lot. He reads well.”
    So I stood up, and read, “We live in a glorious land. The Lord Buddha received his enlightenment in this land. The River Ganga gives life to our plants and our animals and our people. We are grateful to God that we were born in this land.”
    “Good,” the inspector said. “And who was the Lord Buddha?”
    “An enlightened man.”
    “An enlightened god. ”
    (Oops! Thirty-six million and five—!)
    The inspector made me write my name on the blackboard; then he showed me his wristwatch and asked me to read the time. He took out his wallet, removed a small photo, and asked me, “Who is this man, who is the most important man in all our lives?”
    The photo was of a plump man with spiky white hair and chubby cheeks, wearing thick earrings of gold; the face glowed with intelligence and kindness.
    “He’s the Great Socialist.”
    “Good. And what is the Great Socialist’s message for little children?”
    I had seen the answer on the wall outside the temple: a policeman had written it one day in red paint.
    “Any boy in any village can grow up to become the prime minister of India. That is his message to little children all over this land.”
    The inspector pointed his cane straight at me. “You, young man, are an intelligent, honest, vivacious fellow in this crowd of thugs and idiots. In any jungle, what is the rarest of animals—the creature that comes along only once in a generation?”
    I thought about it and said:
    “The white tiger.”
    “That’s what you are, in this jungle.”
    Before he left, the inspector said, “I’ll write to Patna asking them to send you a scholarship. You need to go to a real school—somewhere far away from here. You need a real uniform, and a real education.”
    He had a parting gift for me—a book. I remember the title very well: Lessons for Young Boys from the Life of Mahatma Gandhi.
    So that’s how I became the White Tiger. There will be a fourth and a fifth name too, but that’s late in the story.
    Now, being praised by the school inspector in front of my teacher and fellow students, being called a “White Tiger,” being given a book, and being promised a scholarship: all this constituted good news, and the one infallible law of life in the Darkness is that good news becomes bad news—and soon.
    My cousin-sister Reena got hitched off to a boy in the next village. Because we were the girl’s family, we were screwed. We had to give the boy a new bicycle, and cash, and a silver bracelet, and arrange for a big wedding—which we did. Mr. Premier, you probably know how we Indians enjoy our weddings—I gather that these days people come from other countries to get married Indian-style. Oh, we could have taught those foreigners a thing or two, I tell you! Film songs blasting out from a black tape recorder, and drinking and dancing all night! I got smashed, and so did Kishan, and so did everyone in the family, and for all I know, they probably poured hooch into the water buffalo’s trough.
    Two or three days passed. I was in my classroom, sitting at the back, with the black slate and chalk that my father had brought me from one of his trips to Dhanbad, working on the alphabet on my own. The boys were chatting or fighting. The teacher had passed out.
    Kishan was standing in the doorway of the classroom. He gestured with his fingers.
    “What is it, Kishan? Are we going somewhere?”
    Still he said nothing.
    “Should I bring my book along? And my chalk?”
    “Why not?” he said. And then, with his hand on my head, he led me out.
    The family had taken a big loan from the Stork so they could have a lavish wedding and a lavish dowry for my cousin-sister. Now the Stork had called in his loan. He wanted all the members of the family working for him and he had seen me in school, or his collector had. So they had to hand me over too.
    I was taken to the tea shop. Kishan folded his hands and bowed to the shopkeeper. I bowed to the shopkeeper too.
    “Who’s this?” The shopkeeper squinted at me.
    He was